


Clear as the Sun

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Comrades, F/M, Pre-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has not been so nervous around a woman in years, he realizes; perhaps not since he was fifteen and bedding a girl for the first time on the eve of the battle for Ronsenburg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clear as the Sun

_Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners? -- The Song of Songs, which is Solomon's, 6:10_

The position is still new to him, still awkward, everything from the new name to the weight of the ornate helm that now serves as his badge of office. If there are any in his corps who still question his authority, as a non-Archadian commanding native citizens, they no longer voice their complaints aloud, now that he has received the promotion from judge to Magister.

But as a group, Gabranth thinks, the Judges Magister seem to all be exceptions to one rule or another. He lifts free his helm as he enters the main barracks of Archades, glad for the fresh air. There is Zecht, who was an airship engineer, not a soldier, before House Solidor called on him. Gabranth walks down the central hallway of the barracks, his steps echoing off bare stone. There is Ghis, who would be a senator in his own right if he had the noble ancestry to support his ambitions. The hour is late; Gabranth has been delayed too long in his rounds today. There is Zargabaath, who writes extensive essays on the philosophy of the empire, both social and natural. Perhaps, Gabranth thinks, there will be someone still tending the fires in the kitchen, so he might have a warm meal before he retires. There is Bergan, first defender of Draklor's extravagant promise and more-extravagant budget, who has the kind of faith that in another country would have made him a priest. At the end of the corridor, light spills from the barracks dining hall; Gabranth quickens his steps. And there is Drace.

Laughter echoes from the dining hall, and Gabranth hesitates; he would not interrupt the men in their off hours, when they are relaxing -- but one of those voices was female, and women soldiers are more rare in the Imperial army than in any other fighting force that Gabranth has encountered. He steps up to the doorway and looks inside, and indeed, Drace is there, her helm and gauntlets set aside, a flagon on the table in front of her and an honest smile on her face. She looks up, and catches sight of him before he's quite decided whether he should come in to join her and her squad.

"Gabranth," she says, and her usually precise accent is roughened with ale or conversation or both. "Welcome back to the golden city. Come and have a drink with us."

"Thank you," Gabranth says. He finds himself obscurely glad that he has already removed his helm -- the judges at Drace's table are all at least half out of their armor, and he feels alien enough without the mask. "What do we celebrate?"

"The last day of marksmanship testing for my command," Drace says, as one of her men rises to pull another pint from the standing keg.

Gabranth smiles. "Certainly worth a toast or two," he says, and nods his thanks to the soldier who hands him a flagon of his own. He's competent enough with a rifle, as all of the judges must be, but as best he can tell none of the Magisters _like_ the damn things -- what good is the noise and reek of black powder, the distance and slow rate of fire, compared with the immediacy and power of close combat? Indeed, he suspects that one of the unofficial qualifications for promotion is the ability not only to wield the great two-handed blades of office but to look terrifyingly competent while doing so. He remembers well the first time he saw Drace wade into a nest of thieves in old Archades, steel flashing in the torchlight, her doubled mace crunching against --

"Here," Drace says, "what has you so lost in thought?"

Gabranth shakes his head. "Marksmanship," he says. "How little help a rifle corps would have been in that raid where I met you."

"Flatterer," Drace says. "And here I thought it must be something serious." She smiles, and some of her men do, too, and Gabranth takes a seat at the table with them.

"Deadly serious," he protests. "The scourge of the old city, remember?"

"Who," asks one of the captains, "the criminals or her ladyship?"

Most of them laugh at that, and then Gabranth has to tell the story, how he'd just been promoted from the infantry into the judges' corps, how they'd been sent down to provide support for the new Magister in case she couldn't handle the trouble with her own squad, how they'd arrived just in time to see very clearly how little the 'lady judge' needed to have her hand held as she dispensed justice.

That, of course, leads to another round of storytelling, the men telling tales about their adventures on patrol under Drace's command. Gabranth helps himself to the bread and cheese and dried figs on a platter in the middle of the table, and listens with a smile on his face that doesn't feel forced at all. The Drace of the men's stories is fearless and uncompromising, occasionally to a fault -- as she's quick to point out herself, when the men sound too flattering -- but merciful, too, when mercy is just. Her men are proud of her, and loyal; they scoff at the idea that she could be anything less than ideal for the job. Gabranth watches the way she teases them, the banter easy, and thinks, she is a good soldier. And sometimes her eyes linger on him, the same warm burnished gray as her breastplate, and he almost wonders at that -- but she is a judge first, as he is, and to assume that her friendship is an invitation to anything more would be at the very least unworthy of the office.

And eventually, after Gabranth has had his fill of the rations and the ale alike, after the bell in the barracks tower has tolled the first change of the night watch, Drace rises to leave. "The rest of you might have leave tomorrow," she says as she tucks her helm under her arm and reaches for her gauntlets, "but I'll be up first thing to meet with the emperor."

"At least you can get by with standing at attention and looking serious," Gabranth says. "If I'm to report to him on the state of the western territories, I'd best follow your example."

The men bid Drace good night, and a fair number of them say as much to Gabranth as well, when he rises and collects his armor to accompany her. It's a warmer welcome back to Archades than he'd thought to receive.

He falls into step beside her as they head for the stairs; the barracks is an old building, and the stubborn pride of Archadia's military has seen to it that no well-meaning architect added an elevator after the fact, so the Magisters must climb the five flights of stairs between the kitchens and their quarters on the top floor. It's wearying, in full armor, but Gabranth is beginning to grow accustomed to it.

"They're good men, your squad," he says, as they round perhaps the fourth bend in the stairs. "They'd follow you into the Hell Wyrm's jaws."

"It wasn't always so," Drace answers. "They're stubborn, like most men in most places. Slow to trust someone who isn't quite like them. But there's value to loyalty that's not won easily." She looks over at him, and smiles, faint creases at the corners of her eyes. "Don't worry. With a little time, your men will learn to recognize the quality that made a Magister of you, as well."

"I did not mean to plead for reassurance," Gabranth protests. The muscles in his thighs ache, which means they must be nearing the top of the stairs by now.

"I know," Drace says. "It is not the only thing that you could have, if you but asked for it."

She cannot possibly mean that the way it sounds, Gabranth thinks, nearly missing a step at the top of the stairs as they reach the Magisters' hall. He must be mistaken.

And yet at the doorway to his rooms, she pauses. "Will you invite me in?" she asks. "Or are you too weary for more company this evening?"

It is a courteous gesture, he thinks, giving him a way to decline that need not cause offense. And yet -- this is a risk, for her, and if he should refuse, he would not expect her to ask again. "Please," he says, for he knows he would regret it if he did not. "Will you come in?"

There is relief in her face for a moment, and something else harder to place, as she says, "Thank you," and steps inside.

His quarters are spare, without the extensive bookshelves of Zargabaath's or the clockwork curiosities of Zecht's. Drace looks around, and smiles. "Still new to the position, indeed. Your rooms aren't yet full of incriminating details about your personal habits."

"It has been years since I had the luxury of collecting them," Gabranth agrees. He sets his helm and gauntlets down on the table beside his armor stand, and hesitates. He's unsure of the etiquette here, whether it would be impolite to remove his armor while she still wears hers, whether she does in fact intend that they be here for purposes that will require them both to shed their armor, whether --

"Do you mind?" he asks, removing his heavy belt, reaching for the underarm buckles of his cuirass. She is at least forthright enough that she will not hesitate to tell him if he missteps, much as he would prefer not to do so.

"Not at all," she says. She places her own helm and gauntlets beside his and steps closer, reaching to brush his hands away and undo the buckles herself. It could be as simple as a comradely gesture -- while it is possible for a Magister to armor himself or remove his own plate likewise, it is awkward, and less trouble with assistance. Gabranth turns his attention to his pauldrons, detaching them from the cuirass so the entire assemblage can be removed. But he falters when her hand lingers against his side, warm even through leather; that is a touch he would not expect from any of the others.

"Drace," he says. He has not been so nervous around a woman in years, he realizes; perhaps not since he was fifteen and bedding a girl for the first time on the eve of the battle for Ronsenburg. "You give me no cause to doubt, but -- for my own peace of mind, reassure me. Should I do anything you do not want, you will tell me."

"I will, if I have need," she says. She finishes with his buckles and parts the halves of his cuirass so that he might shrug out of it. "I do not believe that you will give me cause. Had I such reservations about you, I would not have invited myself in."

Gabranth places his cuirass on his armor stand, carefully, and turns back to her. He is still half armored, but he feels unprotected, meeting her gaze, and she, in her plate, is nearly untouchable. He reaches up carefully and cradles her face in his hands, bare skin against skin for the first time in their acquaintance. She leans into the touch, and his heart beats loud in his ears as he takes the encouragement, pressing their lips together.

She kisses back slowly, almost uncertainly, as though she also is out of practice, or perhaps -- he flatters himself -- she also wants to savor this moment. Her lips part, and her tongue slips into his mouth, exploring with a deliberate sensuality that makes him feel dizzy with heat. Her hands rest against his sides, firm and certain. He would press closer to her, he thinks, save that her armor will not allow him.

"May I?" he asks, stepping back, dropping his hands to the buckles of her cuirass.

Drace shakes her head. "Start here," she says, showing him how to uncouple her elaborate, engraved tassets from the lower edge of her breastplate. They accentuate the line of her hips, the armor's only concession to her femininity, and Gabranth doesn't realize how much they exaggerate it until he sees her without them.

It seems only natural, at that point, to go down on one knee and unbuckle her poleyns next. The leather she wears underneath is close-fitted, like his own, and her legs are shapely, muscular under his hands.

"Rise," she says, and when he looks up she is pulling free her pauldrons, her cheeks flushed.

"Forgive me," he answers. "It is not my intention to make you uncomfortable."

"You do not," Drace protests, and when he stands she draws him close as if to prove the point with another kiss -- harder than the first, and hungry. "We are, however, both still wearing too much armor for this."

Gabranth nods. "Fair enough," he says, and moves to assist her now with her cuirass. "And after all this, we'll yet be fully dressed."

"The curse of the office," Drace says, removing her cuirass and lifting free her gorget as well. "The post of Magister does not lend itself well to hurried encounters."

"I find that suits me," Gabranth says. "I would not wish to rush this." He almost fears that he has said too much, but she smiles, setting her gorget aside and reach to help unbuckle his couters.

She looks much smaller, divested of her armor, but he suspects she could say the same of him, and he knows better than to assume it is any sign of weakness. She fits neatly into his arms once they are both stripped of their plate, scarcely shorter than he is, her body warm and muscular against his. It is not like the hurried couplings of his youth; they both have time, and neither of them is afraid to take it. They kiss slowly, deeply, his hand carded through her hair, her hands flat against his back.

"I would see you," Drace says, when she pulls back from the kiss. She tugs at the laces of his shirt. "Is this all right?"

"Yes," Gabranth answers, his heart pounding. The ale has left his blood, but he feels intoxicated still. "I hope you will grant me the same favor."

"Of course." Drace steps back, pulling her shirt untucked and then shrugging it off over her head. She wears a corselet underneath it, binding her breasts, but when Gabranth finishes doffing his shirt she is already unhooking it, rolling her shoulders in what looks like relief as she discards it. Her skin is darker than his, firm, with but a few pale scars to mark it. The heavy weight of her breasts, nipples peaked and brown, is the only softness about her -- the clean line of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, the swordsman's muscles in her forearms, all speak of hardness and strength.

She laughs, when she sees him admiring her. "You look like a lovesick puppy," she says.

"You're beautiful," Gabranth answers. He hadn't realized it before, hadn't let himself think of her as anything but a superior officer and now a comrade. To notice her like this would have been at the least a distraction he could ill afford, when he had to prove himself over again with each new posting to which he was assigned, but now -- he takes her hand. "Come to bed with me."

"With pleasure," she says, and squeezes his fingers. She strips out of her own boots and trousers, and he does likewise, and then she's following him to bed -- the mattress dipping under their weight, her skin warm where she leans against him.

"Ah, gods," Gabranth murmurs, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in the hollow of her throat. The taste of steel clings to her skin.

Drace hums a low, hungry sound in her throat, tangling her legs with his as he slides a hand up her side to cup one of her breasts. The way she rocks toward him makes him dizzy, giddy with the strength of her thighs, the slickness she grinds against him when he catches her nipple between his fingers.

"Yes," she breathes, one hand in his hair, and for an instant he wishes -- for once -- that he kept it longer, so she could get a better grip. "Bite," she says, and when he does, she shudders, arching into him. His cock pushes against her hip as she moves, as he sucks on the junction of her throat, just above her collarbone. Her hands are hard, needy, holding him close, so they slide against each other damp with sweat and her fluids.

She's quiet, like a soldier who's used to little privacy, and when she reaches down between them to take hold of his cock, his moan sounds loud by comparison. "Gods," he says. "Drace. Drace." Her hand is sword-callused and her grip is firm, neither too timid nor too aggressive. She strokes him confidently, not troubled as some Archadian women have been by his foreskin.

"No Archadian at all, underneath the armor," she says. She's smiling, though, her eyes warm and still hungry.

Gabranth smiles back. "You had to lay hands on the evidence to notice?"

"A good judge always prefers evidence to hearsay," Drace says. Her hand doesn't falter, and he finds himself rocking into the touch. "In fact, I'd go so far as to say that the evidence should be examined closely."

His eyes widen at that, and then she's sitting up, her hand still on his cock as she crawls down the bed to kneel between his thighs. Gabranth's breath catches in his throat as she licks her lips.

"I assume," she says dryly, "that as a good citizen you have no objections to the investigation."

"Of course, your honor," Gabranth says. "I have always tried to cooperate fully with the law."

"A good policy, definitely," Drace says. She leans down.

The first touch of her tongue makes him shudder, trying to hold back his moan. She licks at the tip of his cock almost delicately, tasting, teasing just under the foreskin. Her breath is warm against his skin, the touch maddeningly light. When she parts her lips further, to take him in her mouth, he reaches down.

"Here," he says, "like this." He shows her how to draw back the skin and expose the head completely. Her mouth closes over him then, her hand curled at the base, and for a moment the soft, wet heat is so intense that he almost can't bear it. He holds still as she moves, trying to keep himself from rocking up into her mouth, from demanding more when she's already giving him -- "Drace," he says, "Drace, I -- here." His fingers brush her shoulder, seeking purchase, trying to coax her into moving. "I would, gods -- I would return the favor."

She looks up, and for a second he thinks she looks surprised -- but how could that be right? How could she expect any less from any man fortunate enough to be in such a position?

"Where would you have me, then?" she asks, sitting back on her heels. The question itself would make him giddy, even without the fact that her lips are flushed and her voice hoarse from sucking his cock.

"Turn," Gabranth says, and shifts over so that she has room to stretch out beside him, turned the opposite way with her hips by his head, her hips and the damp thatch of curls between her thighs. The scent of her cunt makes his mouth water.

The position is slightly awkward, leaving both of them twisted in ways that aren't entirely comfortable, but Gabranth finds that he doesn't care, parting her thighs with trembling hands to expose her slick swollen folds. When he bends his head to lick his way between them, to find the stiff nub at their center, she does moan, the sound muffled as she takes his cock in her mouth again. She shivers when he presses his tongue hard against that spot, moans louder when he focuses there in tight, fast strokes, and his cock slides deeper down her throat.

He will not disappoint her, he promises himself; he will not finish before she is satisfied. It is not easy task he sets himself, with the slick warm flesh of her lips and tongue teasing his cock and the rich musk of her cunt on his tongue, but he does his best to hold onto his composure. He steadies Drace's thighs with his hands wrapped around them, and pays attention to the tiny flexing motions she makes as she strains for it -- she wants to come, he thinks. She wants to come because of what he's doing to her, because he's licking her cunt. He moans, his cock stiffening, and she answers him with a needy sound that he can _feel_ where her throat is tight around him.

Don't stop, he thinks it means, and he doesn't though his mouth aches with the unfamiliar effort and his cock aches for release -- and her whole body is drawing taut against him now, like a bow ready to fire, tension held at its peak for a few breathless moments before she comes, shuddering, keening with pleasure, her throat opening for his cock. Gabranth doesn't stop until she makes him, until she reaches down to push his head away, her mouth still working.

"Ah, please," he says, his cheek resting against her thigh, "Drace, I -- yes --" and he reaches for her hand, blindly, holding tight as she takes him deep -- "now, gods, I --" and he can't hold back any more, but he must have given her enough warning, so he lets his control go, and she pulls back but not entirely, so he spills into her mouth, shaking, dizzy with release -- and she _swallows_.

He can't even find words, for a moment. Drace rolls away and sits up, and she's smiling but there's something brittle in it. Gabranth sits up as well, and reaches out to slide an arm around her waist. When he leans in to kiss her, he's grateful to see her expression soften; he's passed another test, it seems, with so simple an act of decency. He parts his lips for her tongue, and pulls her closer. She wraps her arms around him in return, holding on; the kiss is soft and slow, and he can taste his own bitterness in her mouth.

When she pulls back from the kiss, he has but one question left for her. "Will you stay?"

He can see the indecision in her face, see her weighing her options; there are, as far as he knows, no actual rules forbidding them from dalliances with each other, though he would not blame her for wanting to be cautious. Still, they have individual suites with washrooms, and it should not be impossible to avoid the others in the morning, before they leave for the palace of House Solidor.

"I will," she says, and favors him with her wry smile again. "It certainly seems more inviting than donning all my armor again merely to trek down the hall to my own rooms."

"Anything to spare you that hardship," Gabranth says. He leans back, and Drace moves with him, stretching out beside him with her arm over his waist. The magicite lamp is near enough to his bedside that he can douse it without even rising.

"I should warn you," Drace murmurs, settling in with her head against his shoulder, "that sometimes I kick."

"And I should warn you," Gabranth says, speaking into the softness of her hair, "that I've been told I snore."

"Mmm." She presses a kiss to his collarbone. "Fair enough."

Fair enough, and more than that. Gabranth closes his eyes, and though the ache in his chest is unfamiliar of late, he remembers enough to recognize it as light, as hope.


End file.
